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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27265681">Restless</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar'>Emmithar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020 [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arthur Whump, Buried Alive, Hurt/Comfort, Sleep Deprivation, Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:41:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,809</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27265681</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He should have known better. To let well enough alone. To know that those fools weren't worth the effort; their crude remarks splitting the air as he rode by. He should have ignored them. After all, hadn't Dutch told all of them to keep their heads down? </p><p>If only he had listened. He wouldn’t be here now. Wouldn’t be trapped. Wouldn’t be...</p><p>Whumptober 2020<br/>Prompt #4 Running Out of Time 'Buried Alive'<br/>Prompt #18 Panic! At the Disco 'Panic Attacks'<br/>Prompt #23 'What's a Whumpee Gotta Do To Get Some Sleep Around Here? 'Exhaustion' 'Sleep Deprivation'</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020 [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Restless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He should have known better. To let well enough alone. To know that those fools weren't worth the effort; their crude remarks splitting the air as he rode by. He <em>should </em>have ignored them. After all, hadn't Dutch told all of them to keep their heads down?</p><p> </p><p>If only he had listened. He wouldn’t be here now. Wouldn’t be trapped. Wouldn’t be...</p><p> </p><p>He could have kept riding. Could have pretended as though he hadn't even heard. That was hard to do when they were nearly yelling, the accusations dripping from their filthy lips. Puerile remarks that should have brushed aside. But the moment they had insinuated he was a coward? Well, that had changed everything.</p><p> </p><p>Had turned his horse so fast that even <em>she</em> protested. Pulling at the bit, high-stepping, agitated as he drew her around to face them. A snarl creasing his face as he closed the gap. The pair of fools watching with glee as he slid out of the saddle. Their fists bared and ready.</p><p> </p><p>They hadn’t used weapons.</p><p> </p><p>Not within the confines of the town. They had their wits about them enough to know that gunfire would draw unwanted attention. Fights were common, expected even; more than one drunken body left strewn in the streets proved that well enough. The sheriff would turn a blind eye to such brawls as long as they didn't turn lethal; hell, even that night in the saloon that had drawn them all out into the street had hardly attracted attention. All that remained was a stern warning from the barkeep, but the law hadn't bothered involving themselves.</p><p> </p><p>Hadn’t involved themselves here either. The altercation mostly silent, muted gasps and bitter curses lost in the tumult of fists. The match over almost as soon as it began. Arthur, after all, was formidable.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t need guns to be dangerous. He had learned to hold his own, a result of a lifetime of growing up in one scrap after another. Of having to fight for every morsel of food, for every bit of coin he earned while living on the streets. Even after joining up with Dutch and Hosea, he wasn't one to back away from throwing a punch, crushing a windpipe, or snapping a neck when asked of him. It was a trait that Dutch reveled in more than once. Blood on his hands didn't bother him much. Certainly didn't bother him here.</p><p> </p><p>Damn O'Driscolls.</p><p> </p><p>Couldn't fight worth half their salt. The first going down in a single blow, a blubbering fool on hands and knees trying to staunch the blood gushing from his nose, the ground quickly saturated crimson. The other, danced about him in some awkward gait, like a chicken trying to escape a fox. In all fairness the man <em>was </em>able to land a blow; a solid punch to his chin. Actually drew some blood. The metallic tang heavy on his tongue as he spat.</p><p> </p><p>But the fool went down next. Arthur having found an opening, fist landing square with his chin. Followed up by a knee to the groin, dropping him there, the man howling as he cupped himself, keening in anguish. He had gaven him a good kick to the stomach, almost as an afterthought. Spat on them, cursing as he turned away.</p><p> </p><p>“Damn fools.”</p><p> </p><p>The thought barely out of his head before he found himself on the ground as well. Head reeling, more blood coating his tongue. Wildly he scrambled, moving on his hands and knees, stumbling to his feet shortly after. He hadn't heard anyone approach. Therefore he was surprised when he turned, finding himself facing off to another three of the damn Irishmen. They had their weapons drawn. Seemed like it was no longer a fight, but a shoot out. He had reached for his own gun, his fingers twitching, blood coating his features. Had watched as the first man grinned.</p><p> </p><p>“None of that now,” he had tsked, as though Arthur were some sort of damn child that was in trouble. It only fueled the urge, fingers clenching into a fist mere inches above his hip. Arthur knew he was a quick draw. Knew that he could most likely shoot these fools and be done with this nonsense.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps he should have. After all, the temptation had been there. Perhaps he would have if it wouldn't bring the damn law down on him. It was a risk he should have taken. He could have slipped the law easily. Could have dealt with Dutch’s fury.</p><p> </p><p>Could have handled the angry lecture; years of brushing aside admonishments a trait that was well established. The man would brood for a time, then forget as soon as he saw another prize. And any of Arthur’s grievances would all be forgiven as time moved on. As it always did. His fingers had brushed against the cold metal, the decision balancing within his mind. It evaporated when the first man stepped aside; revealing the two others behind him.</p><p> </p><p>Hadn’t seen her til then.</p><p> </p><p>A young woman clasped firmly in the second man's hold. A hand covering her mouth, stifling her cries. Her eyes wide and brimming with tears, feet digging into the dirt in faint attempt to escape. The gun, forced deep into her flesh, pressed against the side of her head. The meaning clear.</p><p> </p><p>They would kill her if he did anything foolish.</p><p> </p><p>He had felt his blood boil. The anger surging through him as he held his hands up, submitting. He’d damn one fool after another until judgment day, but he wasn’t so willing to risk an innocent. That wasn’t who he was...who they were, despite the whispers of what Dutch had done back on that ferry. Thoughts pushed aside as he tried to reason with them instead.</p><p> </p><p>Reasoning had never been one of his strong suits. Brute force served him the best. Even so he exchanged a glance with the woman, promised her that everything would be alright, before turning back to the O'Driscolls that stood in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>The man had stepped closer, disarming him. The emptiness of his holster foreign and uncomfortable. Unwanted. His heart ticking a beat quicker as the man grinned, tossing the weapons to one side. A gesture made with his hands, and Arthur found himself forced to the ground, his face pressed into the dirt and arms wrenched behind him. A rope holding them there. He tried once more, to have them let the young woman go.</p><p> </p><p>They had him. There was no need for her.</p><p> </p><p>But the O'Driscoll had laughed, as though the suggestion was ludicrous, claiming she'd only bring the law. Her frantic pleas to the contrary cut short as the O'Driscoll holding her moved, snapping her neck in one quick motion. The panic still in her lifeless eyes, her form crumpled in the dirt. Arthur's own shocked gaze staring back, fixed on her face as the world around him went dark.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>He woke, sometime later. His surroundings unfamiliar; the mustiness so heavy it almost made him ill. Or perhaps that was the throbbing in his head. His heartbeat in his ears, a stabbing pain behind his eyes. They hurt to open, even in the dim light. Blurry gaze searching, taking everything in.</p><p> </p><p>He had found himself bound to a chair. The ropes wound tight, pinning him in place. Arms to chair arms, feet to chair feet, another rope about his neck, tied somewhere behind him, keeping him immobile lest he choke himself. Dully, he had wondered if that was why his throat hurt so much.</p><p> </p><p>There had been a few glances his way at his movement. Though they seemed to ignore him for the most part. There was a group of those fools seated about a table, a pile of cash scattered between them. The rustling of bills as the money was counted, marks being made on paper, the scratching of a pen.</p><p> </p><p>Heard a woman as well, somewhere beyond his sight. More voices, soft giggles and lewd remarks leaving little to the imagination of what was taking place just beyond his vision. One of the boys at the table had cleared his voice, finally announcing that their <em>guest</em> was awake.</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t have been surprised that they wanted answers. Given all the shit that had happened, between taking their score, and the mess up at Six Point Cabin, the O’Driscolls were on edge. Angry and flustered. And Arthur was too well known to play dumb. To feign innocence. They hadn’t even bothered pretending to be coy. Had instead gone straight to demanding information.</p><p> </p><p>Wanting to know where Dutch was.</p><p><br/>Wanting to know where camp was.</p><p> </p><p>Wanting to know, and having little patience in waiting for him to answer.</p><p> </p><p>He tensed at each and every blow. Unable to defend himself. Unable to stop the pummeling. Fresh blood coating his face, dripping into his eyes, welling on his tongue, coating his beard. Dripping down onto his front. The ache in his head fierce, dangerously close to blacking out as the world reeled around him. Ropes cutting into his flesh, tearing at tender skin as he fought to break free.</p><p> </p><p>He could take a beating well enough. Had done so before. Another trait learned from early childhood. And he could tell from the way his chest burned that he had broken something. It was hard enough to breathe, bound as he was, but now the slightest shift left him in tears almost. Struggling to draw in enough air.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur was sure he passed out, more than once. His face battered and bruised, his eyes swollen, barely able to open. Barely able to see. The questions still reverberating around him. His only answer a weak shake of his head. Knowing then that death was coming, hiding in the shadows, waiting to take him. He would take those secrets to the grave with him.</p><p> </p><p>He was no rat.</p><p> </p><p>That simple refusal angering them. The O’Driscoll conducting the interrogation having no more patience. A crude smile on his lips as he shrugged indifferently just then. Without warning a wad of fabric had been shoved between his swollen lips, gagging him. Another length of fabric was tied off behind his head, holding it there. Dirty fingers caressed his broken and split face, the breath hot against his skin as the man laughed.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>You won’t talk willingly, then you won’t talk at all.”</em></p><p> </p><p>The comment invoking laughter. A chill racing down his spine. Heartbeat racing as a canvass sack was forced over his head without ceremony. It was cinched off around his neck. The world around him going dark. Every sounds muffled, but he could hear them moving. Could feel the ropes being cut free.</p><p> </p><p>He tried to fight them.</p><p> </p><p>Tried to move. Knew that this was perhaps his only chance. But he was already drained. The endless beating, the repeated blows to the head left him dazed. Arthur had no way of telling how long he had been in their hold. There was no way for him to track time; to him it felt like days had gone by, but for all he knew it could be only hours. Hands rough on him, fingers digging into tender flesh, dragging his prone form across the floor. Arthur trying to get his feet under him. Stumbling. Weak in their grasp. There was a brief pause as his hands were wrenched behind his back, shoulders protesting at the move. His arms secured once more.</p><p> </p><p>Then he was falling.</p><p> </p><p>Dirt and mud greeting him; earthy ground, not wood. Not like the floor he had seen before they had robbed him of his vision. He hadn’t smelt fresh air. Didn’t think they had taken him outside. His heart pounding as he tried to move. They had left his legs free, and he found himself shuffling even as the squeaking of hinges could be heard. If at all possible, it grew even darker. Mustier. Quieter….</p><p> </p><p>Somehow he got his legs under him. Then he tried to lift himself. His head hit something solid. Dropping him back down, stunned. Reeling. The ache fierce. It calmed down after a moment. He let himself catch his breath. Then he tried to scoot over to one side.</p><p> </p><p>He was met another wall. Tried the other way...the same thing. His heart stalling. His mind racing. It couldn't be...he tried to crawl backwards. Tried to go forwards. He didn’t get very far. He <em>couldn’t</em> get very far. He was surrounded. Enclosed somewhere, unable to move. Unable to see. Muffled laughter from somewhere above. Heavy sounds, dust falling from the ceiling, bits of debris landing on his neck.</p><p> </p><p>He was underground.</p><p> </p><p>The thought paralyzing. Terrifying. Breath seizing in his already starved body. The action sending a burn through his chest. He flailed, unthinkingly, feet kicking out, meeting solid wall after solid wall. Arms twisting behind him, pulling at the rope, trying to break free. Doing nothing but cutting, creating deeper scars. He his his head, each knock and every bruise disorientating him. His lungs, screaming now, unable to breathe. Soft pitiful cries lodged deep within his throat. He was going to die-he was going to slowly wither away to nothing, buried and forgotten underground. He couldn’t-he couldn’t-</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Breathe...”</em></p><p> </p><p>The voice muffled. Coming from far away. Lingering at the edge of his subconscious. Vaguely he turned towards the voice. Yearning for it. Wanting to call out for help, to cry in pitiful relief. Something small breaking inside of him. His heart still racing furiously, the blood pounding in his veins.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Come on, breathe!”</em></p><p> </p><p>More of a demand this time. Forceful and pressing. He found himself unable to deny. Unable to disappoint. Somehow, he managed to get his lungs to comply. The breath short and shaky. A burn racing through his bones. It wasn’t enough. Nowhere enough. But the voice seemed pleased with his efforts. The satisfaction easy to hear in the words. Encouraging him.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>There’s a good boy-take another breath-just like that.”</em></p><p> </p><p>There was a hand on his chest. Fingers on his face, spread carefully about his bruises. He could feel the touch now. Cool against his heated flesh. He leaned heavily into it, his chest still heaving. Got himself to draw in another breath at the prompt. A mantra that was easily heard. In and out. One breath after another. There were tears falling freely from his eyes. Tears he was unable to stop. Hardly able to bring himself to care. Focused instead on drawing in air. Sweet and fresh, instead of heavy and musty.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>You’re doing good son, just keep breathing for me.”</em></p><p> </p><p>Dutch’s voice. Arthur zeroing in on it. Clinging to each and every word, as though it was a saving grace. He blinked away the tears, letting his vision come into focus. The man was seated on the bed in front of him. Mere inches away, his appearance haggard. Dark circles ringing his eyes, his hair unkempt and dark curls tangled. Despite all of that, he seemed determined, words spoken carefully, practiced almost.</p><p> </p><p>“There you go; it’s all over my boy, we got you. You’re safe now, I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Safe…</p><p> </p><p>He was back at camp.</p><p> </p><p>Memory was edging it’s way back. He had been back at camp for the past several days now. Days he could hardly remember. He couldn’t even remember being brought here. Could barely remember being <em>found.</em></p><p> </p><p>Hosea had told him he had been missing the better part of a day. That they had learned of his fate after hearing an O’Driscoll boast about it in the saloon. Had taken the man and done some questioning of their own. And by the time they found him…</p><p> </p><p>The panic had gripped him until he was nearly delirious. He had fought those helping hands even as they pulled him out of that pit. Too disorientated and shaken to even realize they were there to help. Even after they had pulled the sack off his head. Even after they had carried him to freedom.</p><p> </p><p>Everything after that was a jumble. He could remember hands helping him. Tending to him. Could remember Dutch and Hosea both, sitting with him. Each taking turns. Battling a fever, coaxing food and drink into him, trying, in vain, to get him to rest.</p><p> </p><p>Because rest seemed to elude him.</p><p> </p><p>Even now he felt the heavy pull of fatigue, a sourness in the back of his throat. His head caught in a vice that longed to squeeze every rational thought out of him. Spots that danced in front of his eyes, a tremor racing through him. He might be safe...but he surely didn’t feel that way. Whispers in his brain, egging him, telling him he was a fool. That he had caused all this mess. That he didn’t deserve this kindness.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur let out a whimper, unable to help himself as he head fell forward, the emotions seizing him. Barely aware as his forehead came to rest against heavy warmth. A hand coming up to rub circles on his back. Dutch’s voice in his ear, the man reassuring him quietly. Promising him once again that everything was going to be just fine.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t so sure. Sleep came to him in snatches, and every time he closed his eyes the same terror would surface. The tremor racing through him, and he shivered in the man’s hold. He knew; knew in the back of his mind he was nothing but a burden. That he was causing havoc within the camp due to his inability to shake this demon. Could see it in Dutch’s appearance, in Hosea’ haggard stance. Knew that they weren’t the only ones he was keeping awake.</p><p> </p><p>What a god damn fool he was.</p><p> </p><p>“Another nightmare?”</p><p> </p><p>Hosea this time. Arthur cracking his eyes open at the man’s voice. Watching him stand just inside the opening to his lean-to. That same weariness in his gaze. The guilt building, weighing down heavily inside of him. Suffocating him. Micah’s voice, just then, grating in his ears as the man walked by, the mutter intentionally loud.</p><p> </p><p>“Cowpoke’s gonna give us all away with that hollering of his.”</p><p> </p><p>Hosea quick to respond, his voice tight and unwilling to entertain the other. “Best you keep your tongue unless you want to lose it, Mr. Bell.”</p><p> </p><p>The response lost, faded into the distance. But Arthur knew he was right. Knew he was risking them all. If he could only get over these damn terrors-they came to him without warning. Seized him, refusing to let go. He felt his breath catch in his throat again, had to force it out. Force himself to keep breathing lest he drop into yet another panic. Dutch didn’t deserve this nonsense. Had already ran himself ragged looking after him. He pushed away from the man’s hold, arms wrapped about him, trying to still the tremors.</p><p> </p><p>He could hear Dutch sigh unhappily, watching him.</p><p> </p><p>“You need to sleep, my boy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t,” his voice still raspy. Broken.</p><p> </p><p>“You need to try-”</p><p> </p><p>“I have,” he shook his head, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, “every time-every damn time I try-I’m back there-and I can’t-I don’t-I’m so tired.”</p><p> </p><p>The admission tumbling out of him. The guilt lodge there. The confession bringing new tears. One that he wiped away hastily. The fear, overpowering. Drowning him. He didn’t even realize he was crying until Dutch pulled him back close again. A soothing hand on his back, Dutch’s voice reassuring him that it was alright.</p><p> </p><p>“Why don’t we get him over by the fire?” Hosea suggested after a moment.</p><p> </p><p>If he didn’t have to move it would be for the best. The simple thought breaking him down into a small whimper. But it seemed as though he didn’t have a say in that matter. Dutch prompting him to his feet, holding an arm to steady him. There was a blanket draped over his shoulders as he was led out. His legs unsteady, head bowed down as he felt everyone watching.</p><p> </p><p>He knew that he was being judged. The realization sitting heavily in the pit of his stomach. The chill was chased away by the fire, the flames dancing, warming his skin. It was relaxing, he had to admit. Leaning heavily against the log behind him. Dutch sat down next to him, the man talking still. Those same words. Saying everything was going to be just fine.</p><p> </p><p>He fought off a yawn.</p><p> </p><p>The earlier terror fading into something muted, but the fear there all the same. His weariness building. It would only be a matter of time before he gave in. Before sleep took him once more. Before it all started again. He forced himself upright. Ignored the pointed look from Dutch. He wasn’t ready to face it again.</p><p> </p><p>He could barely look at Hosea when the man returned. It wasn’t until a steaming cup was pressed into his hands that he realized what the man had been up to. Staring dully at the dark liquid. The heavenly scent of cinnamon invaded his senses the next moment. Understanding just then what it was. He almost laughed. Would have laughed if he wasn’t so damn tired.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t think I’ve had this since I was a kid,” he said softly. The tea was tantalizing on his tongue. A wave of relief washing through him. Gentle, warming, comforting. Hosea sat on the other side of him, watching the fire.</p><p> </p><p>“The first time you killed someone,” the man agreed softly. “You were a right mess; sixteen I think you were. We had a hell of a time settling you down.”</p><p> </p><p>He remembered that.</p><p> </p><p>There hadn’t had much of a choice. He had fired the gun, the man dead before he had much thought. Dutch had been in danger, had been pinned, and Arthur had reacted before he truly thought it through. Dutch had been pleased with him, but it had given Arthur nightmares. He had gone almost two days without sleeping before Hosea had caught on. Had sat him down, talked with him. Had given him this tea.</p><p> </p><p>The spices lulling him into a blissful sleep. They had followed that routine for almost a week, until the terrors were nothing but faint memory. That time long forgotten until just now. Arthur hoped it would work here.</p><p> </p><p>He took another sip.</p><p> </p><p>The night stretching on. Dutch and Hosea both staying by his side. Talking. Reminiscing about earlier times. About happier moments. Lighthearted memories. He listened more than he talked, and soon enough he found himself drifting. The invitation to sleep far too strong.</p><p> </p><p>Vaguely he was aware of the cup being worked from his hands. Noted that the blanket that was pulled tighter about him. His head coming to resting on Dutch’s shoulder, the faint scent of his cologne invading his senses. His voice soft in his ear.</p><p> </p><p>“Sleep, Arthur. We got you now. Just….sleep.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ah yes, yet another one. At least Dutch isn't an idiot in this one. There's a first time for everything, right? </p><p>This may or may not be the last for Whumptober, so keep your eyes out. I might be able to squeeze one more in. Hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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